The Camp Fire Girls at Camp Keewaydin eBook

The dock and the diving platform were gay with flags;
the tents had been tidied up to wax-like neatness
and decorated with wild flowers until they looked
like so many royal bowers; in Mateka an exhibition
of Craft Work was laid out on the long tables—­pottery
and silver work and weaving and decorating. Hinpoha’s
rose jar, done with infinite pains and patience after
its unfortunate meeting with Cousin Egmont, held the
place of honor in the centre of the pottery table,
and her silver candlesticks, done in an exquisite
design of dogwood blossoms, was the most conspicuous
piece on the jewelry table.

“Hinpoha’ll get the Craft Work prize,
without any doubt,” said Migwan to Agony as
they stood helping to arrange the articles in the Craft
Work exhibit. “She’s a real artist.
The rest of us are just dabblers. It’s
queer, though, I admire that little plain pottery bowl
I made myself more than I do Hinpoha’s wonderful
rose jar. I suppose it’s because I made
it all myself; it’s like my own child. There’s
a thrill about doing things yourself that makes you
hold your head higher even if other people don’t
think it’s anything very wonderful. Don’t
you feel that way, Agony?”

“I suppose so,” murmured Agony, rather
absently, her animation falling away from her in an
instant, and a weary look creeping into her eyes.

“That’s the way you must feel all the
time since you did that splendid thing,” continued
Migwan warmly. “No matter where you are,
or how hard a thing you’re up against, you have
only to think, ’I was equal to a great emergency
once; I did the brave and splendid thing when the time
came,’ and then you’ll be equal to it
again. O, how wonderful it must be to know that
when the time comes you won’t be a coward!
O Agony, we’re all so proud of you!” cried
Migwan, interrupting herself to give Agony an adoring
hug. “All the Winnebagos will be braver
and better because you did that, Agony. They’ll
be ashamed to be any less than you are.”

Migwan, busy straightening out the rows of bracelets
and rings, did not notice the hunted expression in
Agony’s face, and soon the bugle sounded, calling
all the girls together on the dock.

Only those who have ever taken part in Regatta Day
will get the real thrill when reading an account of
it in cold print—­the thrill which comes
from seeing dozens of motor boats filled with spectators
lined up on the river, and crowds standing on the
shore; the sun shining in dazzling splendor on the
ripples; the flags snapping in the breeze, the starters
with their pistols standing out on the end of the dock,
the canoes rocking alongside, straining at their ropes
as if impatient to be off in the races; the crews,
in their new uniforms, standing nervously around their
captains, getting their last instructions and examining
their paddles for any possible cracks; the councilors
rushing around preparing the props for the stunts
they were directing; and over all a universal atmosphere
of suspense, of tenseness, of excitement.